No autobiographical diatribe. I write hoping if I write something beautiful enough, someone will finally love me. Either it's sad or it's funny.
I Really Sound Like A Pompous Asshole in This One

I’m an intuitive person. I do more on instinct than on instruction or knowledge. I assemble concepts rather than facts. I can come to understand complex situations or concepts, but I usually can’t explain how it works or why, because the down side is I can’t recall specifics to evidence my reasoning. It’s almost kind of a catch 22 that I can understand things but can’t prove it.

It makes me pretty good with people, though. It makes me pretty good with meanings and words and I think maybe it contributes to my affinity for writing. I can sometimes make myself likable or¬†relate-able. I can be charming. I can usually read a person’s responses or extrapolate from their word choice to understand a lot about them. It makes me love people even if I don’t particularly being around most of them.

There’s nothing I hate more than finding the bottom to a person’s depth. Like a stone tossed into a well, it’s only a short amount of time before you hear the stone hit something. For me, the depth of people is measured in perception, in intricacy of thought and emotion and understanding, in empathy and intuition, in mystery and feeling. The longer I know a person, the more it hurts if I find the limit. I knew a girl for five years before I figured her out.

We were talking late at night and we got into the theories of beauty. She said that beauty was in everything, everywhere, and that everything was beautiful whether we saw it or not. I asserted that there is the potential for beauty in most things, but not everything is beautiful. She said I was wrong, that the things I didn’t think were beautiful were beautiful and that I was being ignorant and a pest. No, I said, I’m really not trying to be contrary. I just don’t think that everything is beautiful. There are some truly terrible things out there like rape and murder. As the disagreement unfolded, she only became adamant, stubborn, and eventually stormed off. I could hear her from the other room complaining and calling me an ass, while making her case to some of our other friends so that they would agree with her.

That night struck me particularly. I began to see other interactions that had exposed her general naivete. What I had before called a somewhat over-sensitive but genuine liberal idealism seemed less constructed,less deliberate, and more immature than I had thought for those many years. It changed the friendship.

It’s not like that all the time. Sometimes I can call a person from the first impression, some people I know still have me guessing. It’s not a certain thing, and it’s not always a quick thing. Just, sometimes, I can figure people out through and through. I do know a few people, and most of them are my best friends, who are consistent and consistently good. I don’t know how else to phrase it, other than they are solid individuals who are honest, reasonable, and generally excellent people.

If I knew me the way I know the other people I know, I probably wouldn’t be too close with me. I’m erratic, too broad to make people feel comfortable. I’m judgmental and critical and often intimidating and despondent. I have some good qualities, I assume, but it’s harder to point out the good qualities than it is to point out the bad.

Mostly, I just think it’s funny that there can be so many different types of people. Sentience has splintered an entire species so much that we hardly think of ourselves as a species we’re such an individualized people. We can love and hate each other for things that really don’t exist in nature or anywhere else. We fight and feud over the most arbitrary things and nobody really realizes it. ¬†



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  1. coffeeisthenewblack posted this